Tag Archives: the suburban jungle

What Those Candy Hearts Should REALLY Say – After Marriage – A little post V-Day fun

While searching for a pic I found this. I guess I

On Valentine’s Day I was reading through the V-day Sweethearts, you know, the conversation hearts, the ones that are supposed to represent the sweet nothings you would whisper in your lover’s ear before bed. Like: I love you, be mine, kiss me… blah blah blah. So in that vein, I’ve made a list of what should be etched in red on those cute little hearts.

BTW this article is not for newlyweds, so you can refrain from reading and telling me how head over heels you are. Give it a few years. Ahem- I mean, I’m happy for you. Frankly, you can avoid this article unless you’re past the 7 year itch. Sorry, but resentment and boredom takes time to cure, like a salami.

WIVES CONVERSATION HEARTS:

I BOUGHT ANOTHER PAIR OF SHOES, DON’T WORRY THEY WERE ON SALE

SHH… THE REAL HOUSEWIVES OF BEVERLY HILLS IS ON

NO, I WON’T PUT THAT IN MY MOUTH Continue reading →

Barbie and I Can’t Get our Skinny Jeans Over our Thighs

No matter what your weight or size, most of us experienced that moment when we realize it’s time to “retire” a pair of our favorite jeans because they just don’t fit anymore. Damn you, slowing metabolism. Damn you, gravity. Damn you, left over mac n’ cheese.

pMAT1-6593162v380Yesterday while trying to dress my daughter’s Barbie in a stunning pair of silver lamé jeans, I realized they weren’t going over her thighs. WTF? Had she gained a few? Had she borrowed a pair from Skipper? Was it her time of the month? Was she spending too much time in her Barbie McDonalds and not enough on her Barbie bike?

All I know is, this scene seemed oddly familiar. Trying to yank some slim pants over unyielding thighs… where have I seen that before?

Oh right, my closet, that’s where.

At first I felt a tinge of pity for Barbie. I breathed an empathetic sigh as I resolved to get those once fitting lamé pants over her rubbery legs. Continue reading →

Politically Incorrect Meets the Forth Grade

A couple weeks back, I went to my son’s school as a volunteer for his holiday class party.  In an attempt to be overly PC they had all the usual non-denominational stuff: snow flake making, a toilet paper snowman contest, and other things related to snow and not Chanukah menorahs or Christmas trees or whatever kwanza has… like, kangaroos.  Frankly, I don’t know if there’s a Kwanza Kangaroo, but I like to think there is one.

Every holiday needs a mildly creepy ambassador.  I mean, there’s Santa Clause for X-mas.  He’s a fat, jolly, old guy that likes to have children on his lap, which is kinda disturbing.  There’s a Hanukkah Harry, who sounds like a drunken trench coat wearing uncle who may flash you in front of the menorah, and I assume – there’s a Kwanza Kangaroo, who let’s you feel in his pocket for presents and for pleasure.

Not the Creepy Kangaroo you were picturing, or is it?

I may have just massacred the mascots of three religions at once.  And to think I wasn’t a part of the politically incorrect story I’m about to tell.

Moving on.  We were in the midst of making snowflakes, which had to have a picture of the student glued on the front.  I grabbed some of those tiny 1×2” pictures and started giving them to their respective owners.  I can barely tell the girls apart with the feathers in their hair and the Justice accessories, but I managed, then I came across an Asian child.  He was one of many Asian children in the class.

Hello, it’s gifted.

I don’t want to say he’s Chinese because I always get that stuff wrong, and then I seem ignorant.

As you can tell from the story thus far, I hate to sound ignorant.  Though to be fair, I wouldn’t expect you to know me from a Canadian.

I put the child’s picture at the back of my pile, to be certain I was giving it to the right Asian child.

Not that they all look alike.

I mean, if that’s where your head was going, then I’m quite sure you’re guilty of racial profiling.

Shame on you.

I, on the other hand was concerned that in this cripplingly PC society, that had I given the wrong picture to the wrong child and he happened to be Asian, I would be perceived as being prejudiced myself.  Though if I’d given a feather laden girl the wrong pic, we’d have laughed it off.

As I walked over to the child whose picture was last in my pile, I saw him holding another picture in his hand.

Holy shit, I am guilty, I can’t tell them apart.  This is horrible, I have to stop being so preachy to other people.

Shame on me!

Then, I looked at the picture in his hand and realized that HE was holding the wrong picture, not I.

OMG the irony.

I tried to hand him his picture, which he was reluctant to trade, sure he had the correct one.

“No, this is you.” I said.

I mean, if you can’t tell yourself from another child of similar decent, than I think the rest of us are in the clear here.  Phew, one less PC thing to worry about.

And the best part, I made it out of this scenario somehow unscathed and totally PC

What did I learn:  Asian children have trouble telling themselves from other Asian children… It must be the pocket protectors and the ping pong paddles they carry around with them.

Relax, I was just kidding, you can’t play ping pong in school, though they did look like this:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Well, like this but, younger and with black socks and sandals.

May we all be a bit less PC in the New Year.

Little Things that Make me Wanna to Convert

starbucks hot

Understand, these are like the size of your thumb! Awwwww.

So, the to-go cup ornaments at Starbucks are really challenging my faith.  I may just have to convert. 

I mean have you seen them?

They’re like tiny hot and cold drinks with straws and mini logos. So cute I just want to pinch them and make tiny lattes to drink out of them. 

The truth is everything is better when miniaturized. That’s why they make mini versions of things in the first place. Does anyone remember those mini soda cans you could get out of candy machines? Or those cute little mini x-mas trees with mini ornaments? How about those Russian stacking dolls? You know the smallest was always your favorite.

As small a a can, but you shouldn't crush it on your head.

And miniature dogs,

 

I mean people will pay a fortune to have a dog that has been bred with 10 other smaller dogs. The smaller the place you can fit your dog, the better. Screw the Teacup. I want a Shot-glass. Yeah, I want a Shot-glass Yorkshire terrier. You know, one that’s the offspring of a Yorkie a poodle and a spec of dust. I’ll call it a YorkiedoodleDandy, the doodle is so it doesn’t shed. It would only have a minimal amount of hair (due to it’s teeny tiny size,) but I so hate to be off trend.

I digress, my point is: You damn marketers of miniature things have really got me this time. Yeah, as a child I spent year after year decorating other people’s trees, driving to see houses lit up with Santa being pulled by his 5 glorious reindeer. I know there are 9, I’m Jewish, not stupid. Rick Barns could only fit 5 on his lawn, hello?

Anywho, I’ve seethed with jealously at the kids who got to run down their wrought iron staircases into their highly polished mahogany floored living rooms on X-mas morn and open tons of presents under their 12 foot trees while wearing footy pajamas and sipping hot cocoa.

Oh, I know how it works.  At least one of the boxes would bark and with your new puppies in tow, you would move on to empty stockings filled with small things like Nanos, and netbooks.

What? 

That’s how I picture it.

Sure, there have been times when I was green with envy, but I never, until today, thought of converting.

starbucks cold

Look at that cute itsy bitsy straw!!!

We as a people survived thousands of years of slavery and persecution, but I fear this mini to-go cup may be the end of us. To the tribe I say, “Stay strong, stay strong.” They’ve tried to break us before, but we will not let this insanely cute miniature ornament be our demise.”  Unless they start serving mini coffee drinks in it, then it’s every Jew for themselves.

Please note:  No Lattes were harmed in the writing of this article, however, one was emptied.

Hey- if you haven’t checked out yesterday’s post Can’t a Nice Jewish Girl Sit on Santa’s Lap without Being a HO HO HO? you really should.

Happy Holidays.

 

 

 

Let’s Give our Dead Tree to a Hobo | Obviously

This is what happens when you ask a bright child a simple question – you get sucked into some vortex where “kid reasoning” makes good sense and you end up regretting the question and inevitably rethinking the outcome.  This is why we should all just talk to our children less.

“You wanna pick out a new tree with me, this bougainvillaea has seen better days?”

“Sure, but then where are we going to put this bougainvillaea?”

“Honey, this tree has been dead for like 2 years.  I think, I’ve given it ample time to prove me wrong.”

“SO, you’re just going to throw it away?  Just like that?” Said with hands on hips as if I’m throwing away the cat for puking up a hairball.

“Um yeah, drama queen.”

“Nooooooo, (sob sob), gosh they go from calm to melt down mode fast, you can’t throw it away mom.  Why don’t you give it to Haiti.”

My 7 year old daughter seems to think that the people in Haiti need everything, down to a lone left over piece of pizza. 

Seriously, you're freaking kidding me right?!

Like with leftovers, I imagine the shipping on a tree wouldn’t be very cost effective.  I also imagine the look on some poor Haitian child’s face when he eagerly tears into a package from the US containing a slice of old pizza or in this case, a dead tree.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m so glad some of what I’ve been preaching about charity and giving back is sinking in.  However misguided her suggestions, her intentions are good.

“OK honey, I can’t send the tree to Haiti, so who am I giving it to”

“Someone who needs one.”

“Someone who needs a dead tree?  Should I put it on Craig’s List?”

“No mom, someone less fortunate.”

“You mean someone without a dead tree?  Maybe a person who can’t afford bad landscaping?”

“That’s not funny mom.  I mean, like a hobo.”

"Hey guy on my left, why no belongings?" "Because I don't have a stick or branch. If I just had a tree all my problems would be solved!"

Ahhh,  a hobo – a word commonly used in the early 1900s and for some reason, also used by my children.

“Yes those homeless folks or should I call them tramps, could really use a tree.  I mean, since they’re known for carrying all their belongings in a ‘kerchief sack, we should give them a whole tree, so they would never run out of branches to tie their sacks to.”

“I just don’t want the tree to be left somewhere to die. It deserves better!”

That actually does sound sad.  I mean, what did the tree ever do to me, other than try to provide shade for my family and produce beautiful fuchsia flowers?

Maybe, I can send it somewhere?  Maybe 2 years isn’t enough time to leave it on life support.  Maybe I shouldn’t pull the plug.

What do they call a tree doctor?  A taxidermist?  No, that’s not right.  An arbordermist?  Something like that.  I should call one.   If it were a palm tree I could call a palm reader.

Jenny, get a hold of yourself.  You’re not calling a tree doctor, but I did enjoy that joke.  Pull it together and stay tough!

“You know what?  Maybe we could have them make the tree into mulch.  They would chop it up and then put it around other trees.”

“Nooooo don’t chop up the tree.” Said as if I were suggesting some form of painful tree torture.

“Why, that seems like a lovely option, that way the tree could keep giving.  Like the giving tree.  Oh G-d, The Giving Tree, what a moving story…  Anyway, his mulch could feed other trees and the Earth.  How beautiful (sob sob) the circle of life and all.”

“NO!  When Buddy died did you chop him up and feed him to other dogs?”

“OK, you’re right… We keep the tree!  It belongs here with us, it’s our ugly, unflowering spikey dead tree.  Even if it’s on it’s last limb, which it is by the way… it’s OURS!”

This may seem a bit premature, but if there are such things as debate team scouts out there, you may want to hold a spot for the year 2022.

Being a Bad Homemaker is Finally Paying Off

This is hard for me to admit, but I’m doing it for the other crappy homemakers out there who put on the requisite facade of being a good suburban wife, but would rather be playing Angry Birds.

Yes, I will be their poster child – if I can have an Angry Bird sitting on my shoulder.  You know, like a pirate for the age of technology.

Or if I could wear this bra!

 

We’ll negotiate the terms later.

You’re welcome.

You see, the truth is, not since the 60s has anyone judged women on their housekeeping abilities.  Well, not since the 60s have they admitted to it, but it happens everyday.  Sure we’re super moms, super wives, super business people, but don’t think any of us are above coming into your house and assessing the clutter on your kitchen counter.  Well, I do, but only in hopes that yours is worse than mine and then I can exhale a sigh of “wow you REALLY suck.”  Mentally, of course!

You can imagine how hard I find it to see what food I'm buying with that hat on! But I do it for YOU!

All the stuff I do, to seem with it and on the ball – my facade – it’s for you.  I know you’re judging me, checking to see if my beds have hospital corners, if our whites are whiter, if our towels are April soft, if  I pack my kids a hearty lunch with all 3 food groups represented.  (relax, I know their are only 2).

So I’m going to come clean (pun intended) and tell you, THEY’RE NOT.  Frankly, I’m a disaster when it comes to doing all that stuff, because it requires me to keep a bunch of mundane shit in my head.  Between doctors appointments, sporting events, dance practices, teacher meetings, PTA information, how many meals I will have to make for one to get eaten and getting a good deal on a Dyson, I can barely keep my head from spinning off my body.

Only those people super close to me,watched me clean up a flood from on over filled bath, or had me forget their name in their presence, know that I’m a fake and a phony.  Oh, and now you guys.

Oh, and one other person… my cleaning lady.  She’s sooo on to me.  Seriously, I try to seem like I like things a certain way, but frankly she could do a mild dusting and spray Lysol in every room and I’d find it acceptably clean.

Anywho, much to my embarrassment, my cleaning lady arrived the other day with a bag full of new supplies for me… and a receipt.

Evidently, the thought of me borrowing a cup of detergent from my neighbor (AGAIN) was so unnerving; she took matters into her own hands.

Clearly, I’ve become so unreliable, so useless, that others don’t trust me to accomplish even the smallest of tasks.

Just because my to-do lists resemble this,

TO DO:

Wake Up

Feed Dog

Shower

Sanitize kids

Apply sunblock to things that are exposed to the sun

Buy cleaning supplies

Keep spark in marriage alive

Floss…

doesn’t mean I can’t be a responsible parent, homemaker or wife.  It just means I can’t be expected to remember to clean or feed myself and family without a little reminder.  So what?  I make-do.

Truth be told, I come from a long line of disorganized “make-doers.”  For years, my own mother fed me butter sandwiches whenever we ran out of other healthy choices, like thick slices of Hebrew National salami or Oscar Mayer bologna.  Both of which were cushioned by two slices over-bleached nutrient-free Wonder Bread.

If we were out of butter she used margarine, and if we were out of that, she used dirt.  Of course all sandwiches, whether dirt or bologna were nicely complimented by an array of hearty sides.   An artery clogging bag of Utz potato chips, cavity causing Butterscotch Krimpets, and a colored sugar water that came in a barrel.

Back to my cleaning lady.  I realized, I could respond to her gesture one of two ways:

1. Embarrassment –

I could feel totally ashamed that I can’t seem to fulfill my own domestic duties when a woman with 3 kids, that often cleans 2 houses a day, manages to do find the time to do them for me.

2.  Anger –

I could be pretty pissed that another woman would do the my job, though the fact that I have a house cleaner in the first place would make that a moot point.

I went with the obvious choice, C. Be  Thankful. Frankly, I was happy that someone else took it upon themselves to do that crap for me.

I gave her a huge hug to convey that this is a system I can totally live with and fully approve of.  Yes, I have no shame, and I wanted to make sure she fully realized that.  I also wanted to imply that future unsolicited trips to do my errands would be most appreciated.

I was over-joyed. Who knew that simply shirking my responsibilities could lead to such a positive outcome?

Which brings me to my main question:  Why don’t more people take over aspects of my life unsolicited?

For years I’ve missed doctor’s appointment after doctor’s appointment and not once has a doctor made a preemptive strike by showing up at my door to give me or my children exams.

Me:  Let me understand, I am so unreliable that you have decided to give me an internal at home?

Gyno: Yep.  I know how forgetful you are due to the important and time consuming blogging and parenting that you do.  Important people like yourself are the royalty of my practice the unsung heroes, if you will.  It’s my pleasure, nay, my honor to come to you.

Me:  Wow, that is horrifyingly embarrassing, no eye-opening, no… AWESOME of you.  Do you mind if I play Fruit Ninja while we do this?

Gyno:  No Problem?

Me:  Great.  Take that you sour lemon… No Doc, I was talking to the fruit.  You’re a real peach… Yep, that time I was talking to you.  Now, bring on the speculum.  (There’s a phrase I don’t use often, but certainly often enough.)

Now, let’s look at birthday parties.  I can’t remember the last time I RSVP’d for one of those ordeals.  Many moms have taken the extra step to hunt me down via email, voice mail, evite note or a combination of all three to get my “Yay” or “Nay,” yet not once has a mom taken it upon herself to swing by my house on the way to her child’s shindig and give my kid a lift.

By the way, you can pick up a gift while you’re at it.  Hell, you know what your kid wants more than I do and frankly, I can’t be expected to have a present if you’re going to pick my child up with the assumption that I didn’t remember your child’s party in the first place.  I mean, duh?

While we’re at it, if all my neighbors and pretty much everyone I’ve ever met could take to wearing name tags… that would be incredibly helpful.

You guys are so understanding (whatever your names are)!

Thanks,

Jenny From the Blog

 

Altoids and Coffee a Deadly Combination?

This could be the 2000’s version of Pop Rocks and Coke!  Listen, if your head explodes, don’t say I didn’t warn you!

BTW – This is part deux to yesterdays piece on water retention and loss of sanity, but like any book from the Nancy Drew series, it can be read without going back to part 1… if you’re feeling super lazy.

WEEK 6

My fingers are so fat, I had to dictate this. I also had to order one of those large number phones for the visually impaired, a clapper, and a medic alert necklace in case I fall and can’t… I’m scared.

you try typing with these things!

The fluid retention may have water logged my brain and I fear I have officially lost it. I’m babbling to myself and can’t walk across the house without a nap. I tried to cut down on salt and substitute it with garlic as was recommended to even blood pressure by WebMD.com, which is virtually as good as asking any doctor.  I ate 2 whole cloves last night.

WEEK 6 -day 2

I brushed my teeth and tongue 27 times.

My tooth brush is too short.

The garlic is rising from my intestines and oozing from my pores. While in a store with my closest friend, she asked that I back up when speaking, I was down the aisle from her to begin with. I told her I needed to apologize to the saleslady for having no idea what I was looking for and she suggested I apologize for talking to the saleslady in the first place.

I warded off three vampires, or were they more salespeople? I don’t know, they seemed like blood suckers and were certainly giving me the hard sell… until I spoke and they nearly disappeared.  One was working the register I was at and she actually turned into a bat and flew away shrieking.

Does it strike anyone else as odd that the salesperson was not only a possible vampire, but also a muppet?

I can’t take it anymore.  I must get away from myself.

In the carpool line I did something crazy, well crazy if you’re a neurotic over thinker.  I started swallowing Altoids whole with the hopes that they would dissolve in my stomach and take care of the guttural odor, at the source.

Like anyone trying a new pharmaceutical I started by swallowed a half.   Then the crazy took hold.  Oh, no.  What have I done? I don’t know if it’s safe to just swallow an Altoid without chewing it.  They are curiously strong.

Me: No, that’s silly, it’s fine. People accidentally swallow gum and mints all the time, it just takes 7 years to digest, but they survive. Just shove the other three in your mouth and let’s take care of this problem.

So I did and before I could talk myself out of it, I washed them down with coffee.

Me: Holy shit. What did I just do? I swallowed more, and with coffee no less, a stimulant. What if they’re like Pop Rocks and my stomach explodes?

cartoons never lie. NEVER

Me: That never really happened, or did it? I don’t know for sure, I never saw Mikey again.  My stomach is feeling a bit sour. Maybe I should drink some ipecac?

Me: No by the time I get out of carpool line they will already be absorbed into my blood stream. Maybe I should call someone and tell them what I’ve taken, so they can inform the paramedics when the ambulance arrives… or the coroner.

Still Me: This is ridiculous Jenny, could you imagine if people just died from swallowing mints? You would hear about it. It would be on 60 Minutes or the news.

Me:  Phew!

Me: Wait, I don’t watch 60 Minutes or the news. I only watch Cartoon Network, HBO and reality TV.. Shit, I’m screwed

Me: No, you would have gotten one of those mass emails warning you about swallowing mints, like microwaving saran wrap, or using plasticware with the numbers 4,6, or 7.

Me:  Phew!

Me: But what if I’m the first person to swallow so many Altoids and wash them down with coffee? There has to be a first, right?  You have to admit it’s a bit random, swallowing Altoids with coffee, why would anyone do that?

Me in a British Accent: Pip pip and all that… Don’t worry luv, all will be splendid. Now, let’s have a spot of tea, shall we?

Me: I’d love to.  You French people make every idea sound smart.

Our Babysitter May be in a Cult, but at Least She’s Available Saturday Night

Sunday morning my son informed me of that our new babysitter is Pescatarian.

“You mean Presbyterian?”

“No Pesc,” Jake corrected

“Well, it’s actually Presbyterian,” I said trying to right his wrong.  Unlike when he was little and I found total amusement in his mispronunciation of words.  So much so, that I would repeat them back to him in the wrong way that he would say them.  Do you wanna look at your self in the “mirriour,” or type on Mommy’s “computue?”  Look, for nearly a decade I referred to grapes a “bops”

“Mom you’re wrong, she said Pesc,” he insisted

“Ok Jake, Pescatarian.”  Yep, now I just give in out of “fustration,” I mean frustration.  Sorry, old habits die hard.

“How do you know that she’s Pescatarian, did you ask?”  I questioned uncomfortable with the idea of him asking her about religion.

“No, I didn’t ask, she told me.”

“Was she asking YOU?” I questioned, now worried that she was also having him read pamphlets or asking for a donation or that Pescatarianism is some cult off shoot.  (Religion seems like a heavy discussion to have with a 9 year old unprovoked.)

“She was wearing a shirt that said Vegetarian,” he said, as if that were enough information to answer my question.

“Jake that doesn’t help me here.  How does her Vegetarian shirt relate to the story?”

“Well, I asked if she was a vegetarian and she said no, I’m a Pescatarian.

“Presb”

“Pesc”

“That doesn’t make sense Jake, Vegetarianism is not a religion.  I don’t know much about this Pescatarianism, but I don’t think they’re mutually exclusive.”

“Could a vegetarian eat a pescatarian?”

Wow that was an unexpected turn in the conversation, I bet you didn’t see that coming either… and you thought my cult theory was soooo off base.

“Umm, no. Because Pescatarians, are still meat… I would assume.”  I hate to give out incorrect information.

At this point I was slightly concerned about the origin of his question, “Did she happen to tell you she was a cannibal?”

“No,” he responded as if that was a normal thing to ask.

“Did she look at any of your babyfat while licking her lips, tying a napkin around her neck or sharpening cutlery?”

“No.”

“Well that’s good.”

I think that conversation went well.

PS- here’s a picture of our new sitter, Lilly.  She was teaching drums at a local Music school.  She seems nice enough, right?  Best of all, she’s available Saturday nights.

A good Saturday night babysitter is hard to find

 

In an unexpected turn of events a reader let me know that a Pescatarian is a vegetarian who includes fish in their diet.  Umm, Nevermind.

Conversations with Produce | How to Handle Ornery Oranges

On my way back from a recent trip to Whole Foods, I was in my car thinking about my highly inflated purchases, and wondering how much of my food’s airfare I had paid for. My grapes were imported from from Chile, my oranges from South Africa, and my avocado from Argentina.

It dawned on me that my fruit is worldlier than I am!  So, I thought we could kill some time while stuck in traffic by discussing travel, good hotels, and sightseeing.

The grapes were extremely friendly. Well, they were seedless, so what would you expect? They went on to warn me about their country. “Ay dios mio, jou don want to go to Chile. It may mean cold en Ingles, but esta muy caliente . Also, jou should remember to wash us bueno. We may be organic, but jou have no idea how much bug poop jour eating.”

“Wow that was overly informational Grapes, I’m glad we spoke.”

The oranges were not so pleasant. One cantankerous orange spoke from my biodegradable sack made of recycled hemp or some such product and  said, “You call yourself a conservationist!?”

“What do you mean?”

“You live in Florida and you just bought oranges from South Africa! How do you sleep at night?”

“So, you’re a ‘Greenie’” I should have guessed, you being organic and all. Well, I will have you know whenever I see an empty plastic bottle I throw it in my SUV and drive 3 miles out of the way to take it to a collection site. You can’t say I don’t do my share.”

“Yeah? And I bet you leave your car running while you drop it off.”

“Well, of course I do, it’s super hot in Florida. Or, as your bag mates would say, muy caliente.”

“Waster!”

“Orange”

I know, not so creative, but it’s hard to think of a good comeback to fruit.

I continued, “It appears the history of unrest in your country has caused you to become bitter. In addition, I don’t appreciate your tone, Orange. Sheesh, I was just trying to make polite conversation. That is the last time I talk to produce!”

Later that day, I got my revenge on that sour orange. First, I sliced him in half, and then I squeezed him to a pulp. Next, I peeled off his skin and ate his carcass.  I made his friends watch, and then set them free, so they could send a message to other sour citrus.  (What, it worked for Keyser Söze)

Between this post and “Camp Phone Calls Could End my Marriage,” I feel I may be ordered into anger management.

By day I’m a lifestyle expert, by night I write false facts on Wikipedia.  The blog is gaining steam, so if you like it please take a sec to share it and check out the right side for RSS, bookmark, email, and newsletter sign-ups.  Sooo appreciated, if I can grow this thing I can stop screwing up kid’s reports.

xo

-Jenny From the Blog

 

Everyone Farts: Even Moms

I live in a house of extremely competitive people.  We have family races to bed and guitar hero rock-offs complete with behind the head Hendrix style antics.  My son at 5 was using phrases like, “I’m gonna crush you” and “you just got schooled.”

The latest thing in my house is family superlatives.  You know like, “Most likely to make their bed” or “Best looking in a Barbie wig,” (thankfully my daughter won that one).  My son is doling out the titles and my little girl wants in on the good ones.  Each day she asks me to think of things she can be the best at, because Jake already has throwing, catching, guitar hero, whistling, streaking and tying his shoes.

So, I gave her “Noise Making” and “Underwear Putting On.”  Listen, this has been going on for a week or two, we’re well past “Most Spirited,” and “Best Smile” I’m running out of accolades… I’ve even managed to assign “Biggest Flirt.”

Last night at dinner, while giving themselves some big ones like “Artistic Ability,” “Most likely to be President,” and “Best Imagination,” I hear, “Hey Mommy do you know what you’re the best at?”

Finally, I’m in. “What?” I replied excitedly.  “Is it best dressed?”
“Nope.”
“Best Cook?”
Pause, small snicker… “Nope.”
“Funniest?”
No pause, big snicker as if to say ‘As if’… “Nuh-uh”
“Singing, accents…laundry?” at this point I’ll take anything.

Ryan: Farting
Anything but that.
Jake:  No Daddy wins “Best Farter.”
Ryan:  No Mommy doe s.

Am I really listening to this debate? Continue reading →

When Date Night Turns into a Seinfeld Episode

Certain names have been misspelled to avoid search engines.  I have faith you’ll know who I mean.

Ever have one of those nights that’s more like a Seinfeld Episode… Be warned: This is what can happen when facial hair goes terribly terribly wrong!

Now, I may be generalizing, but Atlanta seems to be a hotbed for outdated facial hair.  While on a recent trip to the ATL, my hubby and I found ourselves in a lovely upscale restaurant called Aria.  We were struck by our waiter’s very pronounced handlebar mustache (Please pronounce Moose-tashe for the proper feel) and pointed chin puff, basically the beard of the devil.

Not our ACTUAL waiter

Oh, the irony!

While ogling that for some time, he approached us, “Would you care  for a roll?”  “Oh, G-d did he say can I have your eternal soul?”  I asked my husband before answering.
After a few references to the “Joker’s Wild,” my husband noticed that seated at a ledge across from us was a man with a toothbrush mustache.

You may think you are unfamiliar with the toothbrush variation,   but it was seen on Charlie Chaplin, Hardy of Laurel and Hardy,

 

 

 

 

oh yeah and this guy:

I’d venture to say that the only mustache rarer and more disconcerting than the devil is what’s also known as the H1tler. In fact, I’d wager a bet that few people have rocked the H1tler since Adolph himself performed mass genocide on 14 million individuals.  Distressingly, this person not only donned the H1tler; he bore an uncanny resemblance to him, which made me that much more uncomfortable.  As a Jew in the South, no less, this guy actually sent a shiver down my spine.  Not unlike seeing a swast1ka on your neighbor’s replica WWII German war plane (which happened: see article here for that doozy).

No matter how handsome you look in a H1tler, I would think that after the war, it’s pretty much considered a fashion faux pas for anyone wanting to avoid public stoning.  I wondered if this gentleman was at our restaurant to visit his old friend, our waiter… AKA Beelzebub.

The man with the H1tler and his wife were out with another couple.  All I could think was, what if the couples hadn’t seen each other in a while or maybe he was the husband coworker?  How would one react if they found themselves at dinner with a man who looked like he’d be hired to make balloon swast1kas for a white supremist’s birthday party?

I looked at Mark as he was discretely pretending to text while taking a picture with my iPhone.  “Honey, this is an episode of Seinfeld.  In this scene George would be going on a double date with his new girlfriend’s sister and brother-in-law.”

Girlfriend:  George this is my brother-in-law Jan, Jan this is George Costanza, the guy I was telling you about.

George:  (After taking in the view and shuddering.)  Why would you be telling him about me?

Girlfriend:  Jan is into name genealogy, I thought he would want to look up Costanza I also gave him Seinfeld.

George:  Oh, so you’re into names and you found Costanza and Seinfeld interesting?

Jan:  mmm yes, interesting names, what Russian and Polish, no?

George:  Ah, you know I’m not really sure.  We never kept in touch with our ancestors… their boat sank.  Umm, Jan is also an interesting name?

Jan: Yes, it’s origin is Deutschland.

George:  Of course, If you excuse me, I’m just gonna make a trip, I gotta…

Jan:  Wait, I gotta hit the head myself.

Jan would then get up and goose step his way over to the bathroom.  George would look back at the girlfriend and return her cheerful smile with a forced one of his own and then run off.

Cut to:

Girlfriend: (to Sister) I see  Jan‘s gout is acting up again.

Sister:  Oh, He’s having a terrible flare up.  Between the gout and the arthritis he’s locked at the elbows and the knees.  You should have seen him trying to shave this evening.  I didn’t have the heart to say anything.

Girlfriend:  Poor guy.   I know how he hates the scar from his cleft pallet.

Cut to:

George:  (at the pay phone calling Jerry) Jerry, I’m at dinner with H1tler, H1TLER I TELL YA.

Jerry:  What are you talking about?

George:  Ingrid’s brother-in-law is a reincarnation of the man… he just did the deathmarch back to the table.  I’m telling you he’s looking up the origin of our names.  I think this is a set up, they’re in cahoots, they wanna exterminate me and if they get me you’re next, SEINFELD.

Jerry:  You gotta get outta their.

Of course it would go on from there, the usual… the brother-in-law would make a few off color remarks and motions alluding to his doppelganger, finally ending by heiling the waiter for the check. (Arthritis, remember?) In a side story, an orthodox Rabbi friend of Kramer’s who accused George and Jerry of being bad Jews would be seated across the restaurant taking the whole thing in to include in his next sermon.

Some couples have a romantic night at a nice restaurant.  We simply make fun of the staff and patrons.

PS By day I’m a lifestyle expert, by night I’m a do manscaping- just kidding – I do this blog.  It’s gaining steam, so if you like it please take a sec to share it and check out the right side for RSS, bookmark, email, and newsletter sign-ups.  Sooo appreciated, if I can grow this thing I can stop shaving mens’ private parts, I mean, oh forget it.  JUST SIGN UP!

xo

-Jenny From the Blog

Camp Phone Calls Could End my Marriage

Who knew the highly anticipated camp calls would be such a blow to my relationship? (BTW – I’m not always this overbearing, but when my baby is 1000 miles away for a month and I get 10 minutes to talk to him… it’s ON….)

Okay, it’s camp time and everyone is getting their calls from the kids.  What I’m finding is that I want to strangle my husband during and after each call.  The crazy thing is, I’m apparently not alone.

Look, we moms are ready.  We’ve stayed up until the wee hours waiting for the pictures to download and we’ve studied them.   We know what our kids have done each day and whether they look like they’ve made friends or they’re feeling left out.  We know whether they’re arms are around a friend or they’re sitting uncomfortably next to someone with their hands in their lap. 

We can tell every detail and our minds are racing to find out the truths behind the images and we want to hear their sweet little voices.  We also know that what we have to say is way more important than what our hubbies have to say and we let them talk simply because well:

DONOR, Ahem, Father

Me:  “Jake, your hike looked insane yesterday.  Was it fun?  How cold was the water?  Were the rocks slippery?  Are you wearing your sunblock?  Your headgear?  Do you love the rock wall?  How long is the zip line?  Who’s the other boy with braces?  Is he your best friend?  Is anyone mean?  Are the counselors nice?  What are you eating?  How big is the zipline?  Was your camp cooler looking than the one you played baseball against on Tuesday?”

Sure, I spouted off a lot of questions… there’s a lot to ask and only 10 minutes to talk.  After he gave me a one or two word response to each, I moved on to the next.  I looked over to see the frustration in Mark’s eyes.  A couple of times he started to butt in with an “ummm, Hey Jake, do you umm” and I bowled right over him with my inquisition.  Then he looked at me sideways and I whispered, in that angry whisper that would be a yell if you could speak louder, and say “What?  Have your questions ready.”

Mark:  Jake, have you gotten all my letters?

Jake:  Yep

Mark: Which ones?

Jake:  Ummmm, Well the one about my new team when I get home, and ummm, I don’t know, I don’t remember them all.

Is he f-ing kidding me?  I sit on hold for Verizon longer than the time I have allotted to talk here, and my husband wants Jake to rattle off about letters???  This is not an acceptable caliber of conversation!  And I’m am the conversation rater, I’ll have you know.

Mark:  Did you get the one where I bowled a 300?

Jake:  Oh, yeah.  That was awesome.  Did that really happen?

Okay readers, I have to interject here.  You’re thinking this is high enough caliber right?  Well, I mean how often does someone who is not a pro, actually bowl a 300?  What I should share is that he’s not so much talking about this:

as he is talking about this:

Yep, I’m listening to my husband waste time talking about Wii f-ing sports!

So, I interrupted again…. “How was your camp-out?  Were you scared?  Did you sleep through the night?  What song did you do in the lip-sync; you looked like Eminem.”

Again, Mark gave me the look, but this time he put the phone by his side in annoyance.

So, again I did the whisper/yell: “You are so selfish, you don’t want to hear him talk ‘cuz I’m asking all the questions?”

Me:   Do you have a girlfriend?  Do you like the go carts?

Mark:  How many go carts are there?

Did he just ask that question?  I told him last week there are 2.  TWO Freakin’ go carts.  Great, now he’s wasting my time with shit he already knows.  Tic, Toc, baby.

Mark then went on to rattle off the line up for his travel baseball team this season and tell him about the bat he just ordered…

Mark: Guess which bat I got you?

Jake: The Louisville Vertex?

Mark: noooo

Jake: the new Worth?

Mark: noooo

Jake: Nike Aero?

Mark: noooo, I’ll give you a hint, it’s made by Easton.

Is this happening?  Does anyone feel my pain here?

Apparently, you do… I had a friend tell me that she just took the phone out of her husband’s hand when she felt he was done. Two minutes she gave him and then she plucked it right away from his eager ear. They didn’t talk to each other for the rest of the night.

Another said she arranged all calls while hubby was at work.

A third said Her husband’s only question was, “Is your bed comfortable?”

“You gave him one question and that’s all he could come up with?” I asked.

“No, I would have given him more but he lost his privileges based on his first.”

And yet another told me she can’t deal with the calls because her hubby’s voice changes. “It gets all high like he’s talking to a dog– Hi Lindseeeeeeey, how are your Friennnnds? Are you, woushey woo having fun? Hmmm? Huh?”

Tell that man to "HEAL"


In the end, I realized that we moms want OUR time to be all ours. Even if the hub is right (and he was).  All my babe wanted to do was hear us and all I wanted to do was get answers to every thought and query I’ve stored in my head from the minute he set foot on the plane.

Luckily for my hubby the calls are infrequent enough that our marriage will withstand these bumps in the road. Next year, I’m just gonna tell him they did away with calls altogether due to the rise in the divorce rate.

Take a sec to check out some of the humor that any parent can relate to:  The Day My Son’s Ladybug Ran Away – who knew saying goodbye to an insect would be so hard?  or  I May Have Run Over an Elderly Person While Driving Carpool.  OH, ENTER TO WIN a robotic floor cleaner and a bag of goodies from iVillage’s “Stuff We Love” leave a comment here to sign up.

 

– JENNY FROM THE BLOG